A Modest Proposal
by Frequent and Vigorous
Summary: Kurt's still at square one with Blaine, Rachel's still Finn-less, and so the two make an arrangement. Emphatically NOT a "turning Kurt" story.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Kurt's still at square one with Blaine, Rachel's still Finn-less, and the two make an arrangement. Emphatically NOT a "turning Kurt" story.

Pairing(s): Much referral to Finn/Rachel and Kurt/Blaine  
Rating: T – some fucking language, underage drinking, and sexual situations

Spoilers: Non-specific; assumes you've watched up to 2x10, "A Very Glee Christmas," after which this story picks up.

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to FOX/Ryan Murphy, and I am neither.

Notes: Oh my sweet lord, it's not a Will/Kurt story – alert the presses. Lately I've been thinking about Kurt and Rachel and how much I hope they overcome their past jerkiness and develop a strong friendship, especially now that they're not so threatened by each other. This story emerged in a roundabout way from there. Plus, I really wanted to try writing more of the Glee kids. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

* * *

_**A Modest Proposal  
(Part One)**_

An hour before dinner on Thursday evening, Kurt was lying on the twin bed in his room. Alone. Staring somewhat dejectedly at Pavarotti, whose cage across the room was sitting on a three-layers thick bed of newspapers. He'd never had a pet, especially not a bird, and he never would have expected the smell to be quite so…

Ugh, there wasn't even a word. He'd been cleaning the cage every day to keep his now sadly limited wardrobe free from the repellant Eau de Canary, but over the past few days he'd let it slide, and it was starting to smell like it.

And he wouldn't have _been_ letting it slide if he didn't spend his days either at class, at meals, or pinned to his bed in a lovelorn stupor. He couldn't even bring himself to fashionably drape himself over his comforter, maybe with the back of his hand pressed to his forehead for an added dash of flair. He just lay there, supine, staring with wide, hopeless eyes at the ceiling, at the faint off-color stain that was shaped vaguely like a rabbit.

He wanted to go home. The first few weeks he had been at Dalton he'd been thrilled by the change and hadn't wanted to leave on the weekends. The grandeur of the boarding school so far surpassed the mundane locker-lined and linoleum-floored halls of McKinley that he may as well have stepped into another world entirely. The politeness – real politeness! – of the other students was almost unnerving after spending so many days either being shoved into lockers or waiting for the inevitable assault. He'd even gotten a thrill of satisfaction out of the uniform at first, had smiled at his blazer-wearing reflection in the mirror despite the awful red piping, because sliding into the clothes marked him as an insider.

Except that it didn't. The uniform wasn't enough. You had to _think_ like them, not just dress like them. On good days, the alignment of the other students' attitudes and opinions seemed like an aspect of being a community. On bad days, which were cropping up with depressing frequency lately, it just seemed creepy, like a hive mind. And as one they were all silently pressuring him to assimilate. Even the Warblers. _Especially _the Warblers.

Including Blaine, who would probably never even consider making the friend-to-boyfriend transition unless he was sure Kurt was in line and wouldn't embarrass him. Hence the aforementioned lovelorn stupor and foul birdcage.

Kurt sighed mightily and forced himself to sit up. Tomorrow was Friday; as sad as it was, his bag was already packed and his dad had promised to be there to pick him up at 3:30 sharp, which he had calculated was enough time for him to get from his last class to his dorm room, double-check that he was bringing everything he needed, and then get back to the parking lot and hopefully straight into his dad's car.

He'd hoped that some of the magic of Dalton would have returned by the time he got back from winter break, but it hadn't. Blaine was still the brightest spot in his day, his – if he had license to be dramatic, which of course he did – his sun, even, banishing the shadows of self-doubt and pessimism that were beginning to crowd Kurt's brain. But Kurt was increasingly aware that, while Blaine was a wonderful friend to him, he also valued his status among the Warblers and therefore the school at large – valued it highly. And Kurt, if he continued to clash with the others, to be too obviously _himself_, would only threaten that status.

If Kurt were being totally honest with himself, which he tried to do rarely at Dalton, he'd admit that he was a little pissed at Blaine for that. Wasn't insisting that he conform contradicting the whole "COURAGE" thing?

Kurt pressed the heels of his hands to his closed eyes until colored blotches erupted against the darkness. Time to end that train of thought, if he wanted to work up the will to get out of bed and clean the cage. Pavarotti chirped and fluttered on his perch; Kurt took that as agreement. Feet on the floor. It was a start.

OOO

"Kurt, wait up!"

Kurt slowed his stride; he had his weekend bag slung over one shoulder and was on his way to the front lot, but Blaine's voice jerked him back like a fish on a line.

"Oh, hey Blaine," he said, going for blasé.

"Going home for the weekend?" Blaine asked when he caught up, nodding at Kurt's bag. Kurt thought – hoped, would have prayed if he thought that would work – that Blaine's eyes lingered on his bare skin where the strap of the bag tugged his sweater away from his neck. "I hope you have a good time."

"It shouldn't be too exciting." Kurt didn't want to sound apologetic, but he did. "I'll probably just stay in with my dad and stepmom."

"And Finn." Blaine remembered details like names of stepsiblings, the street you grew up on, all the minutia you casually mentioned and didn't expect anyone to really make note of the first time around – it was one of the many (many many) things Kurt liked about Blaine.

"He does live there," Kurt agreed.

"Well, take care of yourself. Text me if you get bored – or even if you don't." Blaine's hazel eyes crinkled up with his smile, which Kurt would have been inhuman not to have returned despite his conflicted feelings – want, warmth, hesitance…hurt?

"I'll fill you in on all the juicy Lima scandal. Surely someone tipped a cow somewhere."

Blaine pretended to clutch at his pearls; he was laughing; he was already walking backwards, away.

"Do get in touch," he said as he went, another crumb scattered at Kurt's feet, and then he turned around and started jogging toward the group clustered at the entrance of the Arts building. Kurt watched him for another moment, then continued toward the parking lot. He convinced himself he'd feel better once he was with his family; the last couple of times he'd shut the passenger door, about to leave Dalton for a few days, he'd felt like he shut himself back up in his own skin as well as in the car. It was good – comfortable.

A wide smile stretched his lips when his dad honked at him by the front arch. Burt leaned over in his seat and swung Kurt's door open as he approached.

"Hey, Kurt," his dad all but bellowed, jovial, pulling Kurt into a one-armed hug. "Good to have you back."

"Good to see you, Dad."

His dad, in his baseball cap and carpenter jeans with the old oil stain on the thigh and shapeless flannel shirt. It was more than good; it was home.

OOO

"Oh _hell_ no." Mercedes plucked the wine cooler out of Kurt's hands. "No drink for you until you give up the Warblers' set list."

"And puh-lease tell me it won't just be that dark-haired kid prancing around to Train while y'all coo in the background again," Santana added, flipping her dark ponytail. "We'd appreciate _some_ competition."

"Spoken like a true Cheerio," Kurt said dryly, letting the reference to Blaine slide. "And you do realize your chances of prying the set list out of me would increase exponentially relative to the alcohol I consume."

"Man, Dalton's turning you into a math nerd," Mercedes groaned, slapping the unopened bottle back in Kurt's palm. "But point taken."

Saturday night: Santana's parents were gone for the weekend, so most of the McKinley Glee club plus Kurt were holed up in her sprawling finished basement, taking up the three black leather couches arranged in a boxy U around an enormous flat-screen TV. Kurt, Mercedes, and Santana occupied one couch; next to them, on the couch facing the TV, Finn, Puck and Sam were leaning forward dangling beer bottles between their knees, half-listening to everyone else and half-watching the game onscreen. Across from Kurt's couch, Mike was sprawled across the cushions with his head in Tina's lap, and Tina was idly playing with his hair as she listened to Brittany and Artie, on the floor and in his wheelchair, respectively. Quinn wasn't there; her older sister was in town for the weekend and her mom had taken them out for the evening. And Rachel was…somewhere, probably the bathroom. Kurt had lost track.

A few hours into the evening Mercedes had her head thrown back and was laughing at anything even remotely humorous; Kurt had repeatedly (and truthfully) denied knowledge of the Warblers' Regionals set list, which frankly was probably good news for the Warblers at this stage in the game. Santana was alternating between throwing smoldering glances at Puck, who noticed, and Brittany, who didn't.

Around midnight Finn reminded the athletes in the room of their morning practice, and Mike – who'd apparently drawn the short straw and was driving them, fished his keys out of his pocket. The jocks left, sans Puck, who'd disappeared with Santana some time ago. Mercedes pushed her elbow into Kurt's side.

"Wha'?"

"You stayin' over?"

"Guess I have to," Kurt said, feeling generally bleary. "Finn'll tell Dad n' Carole."

"Then move your skinny ass – I want this couch."

"This reminds me of riding a killer whale," Brittany murmured vaguely, stroking the leather beneath her cheek.

"I'm gonna find an actual bed," Kurt mumbled; Mercedes waved a hand, already half-asleep. What bunch of boring drunks they turned out to be, Kurt thought as he carefully ascended the basement stairs.

The stairs topped off near the open arch that lead to the kitchen, currently dark and cavernous. On Kurt's other side, there was another staircase leading up to the second floor, and a little beyond that the living room yawned wide and nearly black. Kurt half-walked, half-shuffled toward the stairs, hoping he wouldn't hear anything from Santana and Puck.

Something stirred in the living room. Kurt froze, blinking hard in an effort to clear his head. It was hard to tell in the almost nonexistent light, but a dark mass rose in front of Kurt and moved unsteadily forward. Kurt gripped the banister; he wanted to run or yell but he couldn't.

"Whozzat?" he gasped. The faceless figure stepped into the entryway and into what available light there was.

Rachel.

"Holy Gaga," Kurt groaned, sitting down heavily on one of the steps. "Rachel, you scared the shit outta me."

"Forgot I was here?" Rachel's voice was expressionless; Kurt glanced up and saw that her face was similarly blank.

"Were you just in there the whole time?" Abject terror had sobered Kurt up a bit.

"As opposed to what? Sitting down there? With Finn? He hates me." Rachel folded her arms and looked away, muttering, "And then no one looked for me anyway."

Kurt valiantly refrained from rolling his eyes. A gambit for attention and then a pity party when it didn't work: classic Rachel Berry.

"You were gone so long, they probably thought you left," Kurt pointed out. Rachel released an exasperated breath in his direction; he caught the faint smell of wine. As if reading his thoughts, Rachel admitted, "I took a bottle of wine with me. To help me ruminate. Wine's kind of disgusting, actually. I had to choke down the second glass."

"Wow, two whole glasses. We should sign you up for AA."

"Shut up," Rachel snapped. "Drinking's stupid, anyway. You get all dumb and numb and then you feel horrible the next day – what a blast."

"I think the idea is you drink with other people and not in someone else's dark living room," Kurt said. "But I'm sorry – only room for one at the pity party."

Whoops. Not so valiant after all.

"You should talk," Rachel said, dark eyes narrowing.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing," Rachel said loftily. "I just hear you're having weeklong pity parties of your own in your dorm room. Mercedes said something to Tina that I happened to catch," she admitted grudgingly at Kurt's incredulous expression.

"Yes, well," Kurt said stiffly. "It's really no concern of yours."

Rachel was silent for a moment, and when Kurt glanced back up she was biting her lip.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out. "If Dalton's not what you hoped it would be. I know you were looking for…well, for things to be better. But the change of scenery isn't enough. Doesn't flip that magic switch."

That right there, Kurt thought, was why he could be bitchy and catty and generally annoyed with Rachel, but could never actually hate her. Could sometimes actually really like her, despite everything. Because beneath the self-absorption she saw and even understood.

"It _is_ pretty nice scenery, though," Kurt said after a short pause, and their low chuckles echoed slightly in the stairwell. He shifted over on the step and Rachel sat next to him, folding her hands in her lap.

"Is it because they put you in the background?" she asked tentatively. "Like Mr. Schu did?"

"It's because there's not even a foreground," Kurt said, testing the words out slowly. "Everything, everyone – it has to blend in. _I _have to blend in. Like I was so good at that before."

For once, Rachel didn't jump in with comments; she waited.

"And every time I mess up – you know, act different – I can feel them shutting me out." He drew in a shaky breath. "And even though they aren't going to push me into lockers…that's not the only way of making someone feel like an outcast."

"What about your friend?"

"Blaine? He's amazing, when it's just the two of us. But in a group, he's Them and I'm just me trying to be Them. And until I am, he's – we're – limited."

He laughed, and it sounded more bitter than he thought he felt.

"You're right – I thought one change would change everything. I thought I'd go to the magic castle and get my prince and it would be…." He shakes his head.

"Yeah," Rachel said quietly. Kurt looked at her sideways.

"So you and Finn are still…?"

"Not speaking," Rachel finished for him. "He used to glare at me, or look hurt. Now he looks through me."

"This is almost stupid," Kurt jumped in, laughing a little. "But you know what gets me most?"

He twisted toward Rachel and their knees bumped. She leaned in conspiratorially.

"I can't just mess around like a normal teenager," Kurt said. He pointed up. "Like Puck and Santana. They just go upstairs. With me, everything's touchy. Complicated. So I get nothing."

Rachel nodded. "Yeah, well. At least you wouldn't have to be so…controlled every time you make out with someone. With Puck, and Jesse, and Finn it was always, 'Slow down, wait, hands off.' And not because I wanted them off," Rachel added in a lower voice, eyes bright with her admission. "It's just…they don't get it. What a girl has to worry about."

"Like Quinn," Kurt said.

"Like Quinn," Rachel agreed. "And it's not fair, always having to be the responsible one. Just because they lose their heads, it's not their fault and they're allowed to just…push. And I'm the horrible one for not letting them. I know Finn complained about it – to me and probably to everyone in the locker room."

Her face darkened. "And then I find out he could just get it somewhere else. How did he expect me to feel?"

"I'll be the first to admit Finn can be obtuse," Kurt told her, and she smiled a little. Then something changed in her expression; Rachel had a very mobile face, and right now it was shaping itself around an idea. She glanced at Kurt sideways under her lashes, then away, biting her lip.

"What?" Kurt asked lazily, leaning back against the steps above him. "Spit it out, Berry."

"It's just…" Rachel paused, collecting her thoughts. "What you said about getting nothing, and what I said about being sick of having to keep things in check?"

"Yes, sex is somehow hard to get _and_ avoid. And therein lies the paradox."

"Well, I was thinking…we might be able to help each other."

Kurt sat up, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Pray tell."

"When you had your experiment with straightness," Rachel put finger quotes around the phrase, "you fooled around with Brittany, right?"

"I got more information about her armpits than I ever wanted or needed."

"What?" Rachel shook her head. "Never mind. Did you – did you get anything out of that?"

"It wasn't…_un_pleasant, exactly. I'm not sure where you're going with this – the result of the experiment was that I am in fact 'capital-G Gay.'"

"That's my point," Rachel said, talking faster. "You didn't get all out of control on Brittany because you really didn't want to, plaid or no plaid. But the actual physical stuff was enjoyable enough, right?"

The pieces were coming together, and it was one crazy fuckup of a puzzle.

"Rachel," Kurt said, going for firm but kind. "I really don't think that would work."

"Really? Because I'm personally not seeing a downside," Rachel countered. "You get to fool around – albeit not with a boy, but still, it's bodies. And I get to fool around too, without worrying that you'll try to push me where I don't want – where I'm not ready to go."

She looked at him almost pleadingly. "Kurt, you're the only one who understands how complicated this is – for you, for me. Why make it any more complicated than it has to be? Just now and then, on the weekends, and no danger of feelings on either side. You're gay and I'm in love with someone else – this isn't some romantic comedy setup."

Kurt swallowed, meeting her eager gaze. Something was stirring in him – not desire, but something similar. Excitement. Kissing Brittany had been nice, in a bland way. He hadn't cared at all about going further, but he had a certain distant, aesthetic appreciation of women – their softness and their nice smell.

Rachel smelled like lilies.

It wouldn't be what he really wanted – not close, not even in the same general area – but it would be something.

"I guess…there's no harm in trying," he said hesitantly. Then, more firmly: "Okay."

"Okay," Rachel whispered, and scooted closer. She leaned in, eyelids lowering, and Kurt focused on her lips. They were, objectively speaking, nice lips, even if annoying things frequently came out of them. Before he had let Brittany take the lead, but Rachel was hovering, waiting for him to meet her halfway.

_Think of it as practicing your technique_, he told himself, and so he leaned in carefully and kissed Rachel Berry.

A pig was probably flying past the window over their heads.

Rachel tasted like wine and skin and faded strawberry lip gloss, and she wrapped her arms lightly around his shoulders like she wasn't quite sure how to hold onto him. The discomfort might have been the stairs' fault; Kurt's butt was getting sore.

"Maybe we should sit on the couch," he suggested, breaking the kiss.

"I was going to say."

By mutual and unspoken agreement, neither of them went for the light switch. Kurt was grateful for the darkness that swallowed them; with Rachel's long, thick hair tucked away between the back of her head and a throw pillow, it was fairly easy to pretend, as long as he didn't press too closely, that he was kissing a boy.

Albeit a rather feminine-smelling and –tasting boy.

But – another surprise – Rachel was a pretty good kisser. Kurt liked how her hands moved from his hair to the sides of his face, and her tongue sliding against his, combined with his half-formed fantasy of a boy doing it, was kind of _really _good. At one point he even sighed against her mouth a little, and he thought he felt her smile when she shifted her mouth to his jaw.

Kurt wasn't sure how long it would have gone on – without the urge to move things along, he probably would have been comfortable continuing to just kiss Rachel for quite a while – but heavy footsteps thudded on the stairs above and Kurt hastily shifted away from her. The footsteps belonged to Puck, who was tugging on his letter jacket as he clumped downstairs. He ran a hand through his mohawk, dug around in a jacket pocket for a set of keys, and from the sound of it let himself out through the kitchen door. No doubt he had made several such exits in the past.

Rachel sat up, patting down her hair.

"I should get home," she said. "My dads are going to give me the Spanish Inquisition in a few hours. Um. Do you want a ride?"

Thinking this over in his own bed sounded much more appealing than crashing somewhere in Santana's house.

"Yeah, thanks. I'll just text Mercedes so she knows where I am in the morning."

Kurt typed a short message on his iPhone, and a second later Mercedes' cell trilled downstairs. There was a sleepy groan, then a muffled thunk as the presumably chucked phone hit something solid. Kurt and Rachel looked at each other, stifling laughter, and took Puck's route out of the house.

"You drive like an old lady, Berry," Kurt said a solid twenty minutes later when she pulled up in front of his house – technically less than fifteen minutes from Santana's.

"I don't like driving at night," Rachel said, stating the obvious – she'd spent the drive over leaning half-over her steering wheel, terrified that a woodland creature would make a suicide leap in front of one of her dads' cars. She put the car in park and they sat quietly for a moment while the proverbial elephant made itself comfortable between them. Typically, Rachel broke the silence.

"So I won't see you before you leave," she said. The light from the dashboard cast her face in odd shadow. "But…let me know if you – if you want…"

"Yeah. I will," Kurt said, fiddling with the strap of his seat belt.

"For what it's worth, you're a really nice kisser," Rachel offered. "You must take good care of your lips."

"I use two different kinds of balm," Kurt said – stupidly, he thought.

"Well. I hope you have a good week. Good luck out there," Rachel said, with finality, and Kurt took his cue to unbuckle himself and open the door.

"Thanks for the ride. And for – well, everything, but mostly for listening."

"Any time," Rachel smiled. "You have my number, feel free to drop me a line. But I do not accept booty calls," she added with mock sternness.

"And I don't stoop to making them," Kurt returned, smirking. "Good night, Rachel."

He watched her taillights recede down the street, which took a long time because she was probably going about five miles an hour. Kurt let himself into the house silently, and it wasn't until he was upstairs in his room that he identified the weirdly light feeling in his chest as something like optimism.

He would, of course, never have feelings for Rachel Berry beyond reluctant affection and grudging admiration. But their new arrangement: he could and would live with it, until he didn't have to.

* * *

End Notes: I'd just like to reiterate that this is not a Kurt/Rachel _romance_ – my focus is going to be on their developing friendship. The not-quite-friends with benefits thing just seemed like an interesting approach.

Speaking of which, if Kurt and Rachel's "action" seems awkward, good, because it's kind of supposed to – especially at this point. Not being a gay man, I'm concerned about my portrayal of Kurt's feelings about getting physical with women – I hope his attitude toward the situation is at least plausible, if not exactly accurate. Also, with regard to Blaine, I'm kind of running blind because we haven't gotten a lot of information about him in-show, and I haven't seen A Very Potter Musical so I'm not taking any cues from that, either. Hopefully he doesn't seem too flat.

As always, any advice on how to improve my writing, characterization, or what-have-you is highly encouraged. But review or no review, thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Summary: Kurt's still at square one with Blaine, Rachel's still Finn-less, and the two make an arrangement. Emphatically NOT a "turning Kurt" story.

Pairing(s): Much referral to Finn/Rachel and Kurt/Blaine  
Rating: T – some fucking language, underage drinking, and sexual situations  
Category: Drama/Friendship

Spoilers: Non-specific; assumes you've watched up to 2x10, "A Very Glee Christmas," after which this story picks up.

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to FOX/Ryan Murphy, and I am neither.

Notes: So…I'm sorry I suck at updating. I hang my head before you guys, because you all left such lovely and encouraging comments and I took forever getting this up. Unfortunately, I post chapters as I write them – I keep pretty vague outlines of multi-chapter stories and consider your comments as I go along – and now that spring semester's started I'm just about buried in work, so the next chapter will probably take another couple of weeks, depending. Also, I didn't get a chance to watch the new episode, so I'm crossing my fingers that nothing game-changing was revealed about any characters that seriously interferes with the story.

That said, thank you all so much for your reviews; I was amazed at how many people read and left comments! I hope you enjoy the new chapter.

* * *

_**A Modest Proposal  
Part Two**_

Rachel was in front of her bedroom mirror, preparing to launch into "Think of Me" (_Phantom of the Opera_ was an inferior musical in her opinion, but she'd always had a soft spot for this song), when her phone chimed, announcing a text message. She paused her iPod and dug her phone out of her purse.

_One new message_, her screen read, the words scrolling in the small window. _Kurt Hummel._ Her stomach clenched nervously. It was Wednesday, four days since they'd struck their strange bargain, and this was the first she'd heard from Kurt. At the time he'd seemed fine with the arrangement, but at the time he'd also been fairly drunk. Maybe he'd contacted her now to say thanks but no thanks – or no, maybe he wanted to viciously berate her for preying on his emotional weakness and using him for pressure-free hookups.

Maybe she should open the message and see. Rachel took a deep, centering breath and closed her eyes as she flipped open her phone.

When she opened them, Kurt's message filled the screen.

_Hey Berry – this isn't a hint about our set list, but Warblers rehearsal today was all Streisand. Thought you'd appreciate that. See you this weekend?_

She grinned in relief; she'd been more afraid than she thought that her tentative bond with Kurt would utterly dissolve in the sober light of day. But his message, she determined as she read it again, was perfectly friendly. Chummy, even. And if he wanted to see her this weekend, it meant that he wasn't disgusted by what had happened Saturday night.

She sat down on the edge of her bed, still clutching her open phone, and began to consider logistics. Her dads would be home all weekend – at the suggestion of their couples' therapist, they were giving redecoration another go, with plenty of communication – but they wouldn't think it was suspicious if she had Kurt in her room for an extended period of time. If their last "open and mature discussion" about wallpaper was any indication, they would be so absorbed they might not notice he was there at all.

She absolutely didn't want to go to Kurt's house. After all, Finn lived there now. Her mouth pulled into a frown at the thought of him. Even the most fleeting memory of his blunt rejection brought her back to that awful moment in the auditorium, and she had to shake her head to clear the vision of him walking off the stage. Dwelling on it was no good; she'd give him his space, devote her energy to performing, and maybe, if she helped them win at Regionals, Finn would realize what he was missing.

Of course, that would entail beating the Warblers…and Kurt. Even though they weren't vying for solos anymore, they were still rivals.

Who now happened to make out a little on the side.

She looked around her room and frowned, remembering Kurt's distaste for the décor the last time he'd visited. And truthfully, all the white and yellow and pink _was _getting kind of old. She wondered if she'd be able to convince her dads to kick off their redecorating spree with her room between now and Saturday.

OOO

When the last bell rang the next day, Kurt joined the sea of blazer-clad boys in the hallway of the language building, his head spinning. Conversational French at Dalton was a far-cry from the badly-accented joke of a class at McKinley; Madame Bennett was a ruthless stickler and came down hard on every garbled vowel and incorrect article, and most of the time in her class was spent in cringing expectation of criticism. Plus, Kurt's partner for conversation in the most romantic language in the world was horse-faced, pimple-ridden Brandon Stetner, who spat on practically every consonant. After one class Kurt had taken to leaning back at an extreme angle whenever they paired up, which did his spine precisely zero favors.

He massaged his lower back as he entered the dorm and tried to think positively. The day was over, he hadn't outright horrified anyone with his personality, and in less than 24 hours he'd be on his way home for the weekend. Which, of course, made him think of Rachel, which brought on all kinds of brain-splitting dissonance.

Sure, when he'd woken up on Sunday with a throbbing headache, he'd had his "Dear Gaga, what have I done" moment. And admittedly, if Rachel had suggested that when he was sober, he would have flatly rejected her. In the shower that morning, he'd even been pissed off for a minute at what he then believed was her manipulation.

Except. It wasn't like it had been _bad_. He seemed to recall enjoying himself a bit even if it hadn't been exactly titillating. And Rachel hadn't tricked him or made him sign a contract in blood or anything. She'd presented her case; he'd considered. And on Wednesday, after another discouraging Warblers rehearsal during which Blaine alternately seemed to croon lyrics in Kurt's direction and then studiously ignored him when he was finished singing, Kurt texted Rachel…and that was that. At least with Rachel he knew what he was getting. In the meantime, he'd try to calm his Blaine adoration and let the other boy decide whether he was going to come to Kurt or not.

In his room he fed Pavarotti and shrugged off his blazer, thinking about how stupid it was that, except on weekends and when you were in the privacy of your dorm room, you had to wear the thing at all times. As if the students would forget where they went to school if they couldn't look down at their chests and read the crest. _Oh, _Dalton_. Of course, how silly of me. I thought I was at Hogwarts._

Kurt stretched out on his stomach on the twin bed and pulled _Tess of the d'Urbervilles _out of his bag. AP English was all 19th century novels this semester; they'd already plowed through_ Bleak House_ and _Mill on the Floss_, and here was another fallen woman. Kurt would have preferred something by Oscar Wilde; at least that would have some relevance to his life. He'd mentioned as much to Blaine, who'd promptly expounded on his love of British literature, Thomas Hardy and _Tess_ in particular. Who knew?

"Tess is such an interesting character," Blaine had insisted, gesturing enthusiastically as he spoke. "Do you know how unusual it was for a woman protagonist to be described so sensuously? Pay attention to how many times Hardy brings up her lips – back then it was practically obscene."

Unfortunately, the conversation about sensual lips didn't lead anywhere other than Blaine's moving a lot as he constructed an impressive, impromptu defense of the English curriculum. By the end of it, Kurt had worried that he'd come off as some kind of literature-hating philistine. Still, he had made note of the many times Hardy's narration returned to Tess's mouth, and had earned an approving check mark when he mentioned it in his "initial response" paper.

Kurt studied the cover of the book, dawdling, and before he got around to actually reading it someone knocked on the door. He opened it and revealed Blaine grinning at him from the other side of the threshold.

"Hey, a bunch of us are studying in the common room before dinner if you want to come down," Blaine said. By "us," of course, he meant Warblers; like the McKinley glee kids, they tended to group together outside rehearsal as well. And here Blaine was, going out of his way to invite him into the fold. Acknowledging him. Warmth bloomed in his chest and he said, "Yeah, absolutely. Let me…"

He practically bounded to his bed and returned _Tess_ to his bag.

"Blazer," Blaine reminded him, and Kurt shrugged it back on. They descended the stairs together, and Blaine asked, "Any plans for the weekend?"

"Not many. Heading home."

"Again?" Blaine glanced at him, eyebrows raised, then looked ahead again. "The home cooking must be excellent."

"If I do it myself," Kurt joked. Blaine smiled.

"But I guess it's really about your friends. For me home and friends are pretty much separate."

"Really? No one from middle school or anything?" Kurt looked at Blaine with interest; he rarely talked about himself, as in his life outside of Dalton – most of their conversations were strictly about shared interests, and any personal details came from Kurt.

"Not so much." His expression was composed, unreadable, but his tone was upbeat as he continued, "So I guess you actually have things to do besides sit at home."

"I'll see Rachel on Saturday," Kurt offered. _And then I'll make out with her. Probably while thinking about you. Because that's not weird._

"Rachel's the diva, right?"

Kurt thought of Rachel helping him with his audition piece and listening to him on Santana's dim stairs, and he felt a stab of guilt.

"Well, the whole McKinley glee club has varying levels of diva-ness," he admits.

"You don't have to tell me, Evita," Blaine said, his playful tone and expression throwing Kurt off-balance. Before he could form an appropriately articulate and witty response, they'd reached the common room, where a small group of Warblers occupied one of the tables. Kurt sighed inwardly and forced his mind back to academics. Blaine continued to be friendly, but the brief flash of flirtatiousness didn't return.

OOO

On Saturday afternoon, Kurt sank down onto Rachel's new forest-green comforter, pulling her with him. Rachel had to adjust to the new angle; whenever she'd wound up kissing a boy on her bed before, she'd always reclined against the pillows as Kurt was now. She was glad she'd pulled her hair back, otherwise it would be hanging in both of their faces.

Kurt had commented that the new color scheme of her bedroom stabbed his retinas a lot less; now, with the lights off and the room illuminated only by the sun through the window, the freshly-painted cream walls lent a pale glow over everything. Different, but nice – although Rachel had only been able to move her stuffed animals as far as her closet.

"I'm glad we don't have a plushy audience," Kurt said now, as if reading her thoughts, although with his eyes constantly clamped shut he wouldn't have had to look at the bears anyway.

"I would have made them face away," Rachel said sweetly, and laughed when Kurt snapped his eyes open and gave her an incredulous look.

"Might not even be a joke," he muttered, then hummed in the back of his throat agreeably as Rachel pressed a row of kisses down his neck. Kurt smelled really good, better than Jesse had, and Jesse had at least avoided the Axe deodorant Finn and Puck might have shared for all she knew. And his skin was soft, especially his hands, which cupped the back of her head. She noticed he never moved his hands to her back or waist. It was actually harder than she'd thought it would be to be mindless about this, when she was constantly wondering if she felt too _girly_ for Kurt to possibly be comfortable.

But then he rolled them over so he was on top of her, barely breaking their current kiss, so it probably wasn't that bad.

Downstairs there was a loud clatter, like one of her dads had dropped a paint can, and a brief flurry of raised voices. Kurt and Rachel paused, looking toward the bedroom door at the same time.

"They should really just hire a professional," Kurt said – she'd filled him in on their decorating drama to explain why they didn't come out to meet Kurt when he arrived.

"Too late now," Rachel sighed. "They've pretty much seized on the opportunity to multitask: redo your wallpaper _and _your communication style – the ultimate domestic makeover," she added in a cheesy, T.V.-commercial tone. Kurt snorted.

"I think their therapist is fucking with them."

"I think that means you're sane."

By unspoken agreement, Kurt rolled off of Rachel and lay on his back next to her; both of them stared at the ceiling and listened as her dads continued to squabble downstairs, the occasional emphatic, "Well, I _feel_…" distinct from the muddle of syllables.

"So how are things at school?" Rachel asked after a brief silence, the nature of which she couldn't quite gauge.

"Oh, business as usual, I suppose," Kurt said, folding his arms over his chest. "Blaine's being…I don't know. He gives these mixed signals."

"Like what?"

"Basically like I told you – when we're alone, he's great. Sometimes it really seems like he might want to be with me. When we're singing, too – it feels like he's always looking at me. But the rest of the time he's just friendly. There, but distant."

"Well, maybe he's worried the other guys will get uncomfortable if he flirts with you."

"They're fine with him otherwise," Kurt protested. "They've known he's gay for a long time; seeing it shouldn't be that different. It's not like he'd be hitting on _them_."

"I guess not."

"And even when it's just us talking," he continued, "it can sometimes be weird. He barely ever talks about himself – I don't know anything about his family, or what his life was like before Dalton. It's like he didn't exist before high school."

"Some people are like that," Rachel tried to reassure him. "One of my dads used to date someone – they went out for two years, and after he'd met my other dad and the relationship ended he realized that he barely knew anything about the guy's life. Like, he'd told him his entire life story, but he didn't even know where the guy was from. But apparently they really loved each other anyway."

"And then they broke up," Kurt said dryly. "A love story for the ages."

"Well, okay, but not because of that," Rachel insisted. "It was just that he loved my other dad more. _That's _the love story."

Kurt turned onto his side, facing her, and said, "Hey, that reminds me – so how do you distinguish between your dads? Like, if you want to call for one of them, but not the other?"

Rachel gave him a _Duh_ look and poked his chest. "If I need to distinguish, one's Dad, the other's Daddy. It's not rocket science."

"So sue me for not immediately grasping the intricacies of gay parent identification." He rolled over onto his back again and sighs at the ceiling. Rachel watched the shadows of tree branches on her ceiling for a moment before speaking again.

"If Blaine _did_ say he has feelings for you, are you…are you sure you care about him? Or is it just that he seems like the only option?"

"He kind of is, though," Kurt pointed out, but added, "And yes, I care about him. He's…kind of everything I could hope for. You know, besides not immediately falling at my feet and showering me with roses and adoration."

Rachel chuckled. "Big, romantic gestures – you spend your life being theatrical, so you're conditioned to expect it everywhere."

"Exactly."

Rachel's smile faded as she said, almost to herself, "Of course, they don't always work."

Sometimes a whole winter wonderland, complete with serenade, didn't move the recipient at all. She hugged her arms to her torso and turned her head away, and was surprised when she felt Kurt's hand pat her hair.

"I guess both of us have to wait things out," he said. "For now."

"I guess."

Rachel twisted her head to look at her bedside clock. "It's almost six. You probably have dinner plans."

"I'm meeting Mercedes," Kurt admitted. "Uh, but you can…"

Rachel shook her head, declining before he could finish the invitation. "I better make sure my dads don't wind up knocking out a wall. They can get pretty intense when they're on a decorating roll."

"That sounds terrifying," Kurt remarked, propping himself up on his elbows and then sliding off the bed. He smoothed out his shirt and hair as Rachel opened the door.

"I'll, uh, show you out."

He followed her downstairs; she poked her head over the railing, listening for her dads. Apparently they'd moved on to the kitchen and were heatedly "discussing" the installation of a hanging rack for their pots and pans.

"Well, maybe they can say hi another time," Rachel said, descending the remaining steps with Kurt in tow. She put a hand on the doorknob. "Have fun at dinner."

"Breadsticks," Kurt sighed, shaking his head. "The carbs have probably seeped into the air in that place. Hey, I'll text you this week."

Rachel surprised him and herself by grabbing him in a short, tight hug.

"It, uh…" she released him and cleared her throat. "It was good to see you. To talk."

"You too," Kurt said, sounding a little stunned. "I'll see you next weekend?"

"Sure. Stay in touch."

Rachel opened the door for him and waved when he backed out of her driveway, headlights blazing. When she shut the door on the almost complete darkness outside – it got dark so early in winter – she leaned against it for a minute. Strange how it took actually spending a couple hours with someone before she realized how lonely she was the rest of the time. Now that Finn was gone, she didn't really have a friend anymore.

She clenched her eyes shut and composed herself. Deep breath – like she decided, she was going to give him time to work things out. If nothing else, she could look forward to seeing Kurt next Saturday, as weird as their interaction was.

From the kitchen, there was a clatter and her dad called, "Rachel? Come help us settle something!"

She shook her head, smiled, and went to her dads.

OOO

"Sure hate dropping you off, Kurt," Burt Hummel said as he pulled into the Dalton parking lot. Kurt was already beginning to associate Sunday afternoons with a hollow feeling in his gut; he forced himself to smile at his dad.

"It's only five days. You call me every night anyway."

"Well, it's not the same as having you home," Burt said gruffly. "Finn always burns the toast."

"As long as he doesn't see the Virgin Mary or Buddha or whatever in it, I think it'll be fine."

He hugged his dad and got out of the car, looking away before he had to watch the car pull out of the lot. He passed under the stone archway that brought him back into his not-quite-wonderland. The campus was mostly empty, since this time of year the cold kept everyone confined to the dorm, dining hall, or library. He didn't run into anyone on the way back to his room. When he opened the door and flicked on the light, Pavarotti twittered excitedly – at least he got a warm welcome from someone, even if they had a brain the size of a seed.

Disliking the thought of shutting himself into his box of a room, Kurt left the door ajar as he unpacked his weekend bag. There was some laughter from farther down the hall, faint strains of music that was mostly wailing guitars. Kurt imagined blasting the _Sound of Music_ soundtrack at full volume, the reactions that would get, and snorted. Not likely.

A rap on the doorjamb jerked him out of his thoughts. Blaine raised his eyebrows and smiled from the doorway. "Welcome back."

"Hi, Blaine," Kurt said, trying to control the breathlessness in his voice. He almost never saw Blaine out of the Dalton uniform, and he looked amazing in a fitted turtleneck and jeans. "What's – what's up?"

"I saw your door open," Blaine said evasively, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "Did you just get back?"

"About ten minutes ago." He gestured at the half-full duffel on his bed.

"Have you had lunch already?"

When Kurt shook his head, Blaine brightened.

"You want to head over to the dining hall, then? I realize it isn't gloriously homemade, but…"

"I think you've about exhausted the home-cooking jokes," Kurt told him, his bored tone offset by his wide smile. "Sure. You want to go now?"

Blaine flourishingly motioned for him to step through the door. "After _you_, good sir."

Unfortunately his mock-chivalry didn't actually extend to taking Kurt's arm, but you can't have everything. A far-cry from showers of roses, sure, but at the moment, with everything still uncertain, it was enough.

* * *

End Notes: God, Blaine got hammy at the end. Who writes this shit? Anyway, as the story's taking more definite shape in my head Kurt and Blaine's uncertain relationship is becoming more prominent, but I don't intend for it to overshadow Kurt and Rachel's interactions. Hopefully the POV-switches weren't too distracting in this chapter, but I wanted Rachel's perspective on the situation as well. The story isn't going to be very long – probably a couple more chapters – but many, many thanks to those who intend to stick around and see what happens.

Thanks for reading!


End file.
